Ripe for Scandal

by Isobel Carr

  Her cheeks flushed pink under the layer of powder dusted across them. “I only ever tried it once,” she said.

  “And?”

  “And you raised one supercilious brow and stalked off without a word.”

  “When was that, brat?” he said, though he already knew the answer. He could still see her outraged expression, could still remember the gown she’d been wearing. Peach-and-green chine silk with matching feathers in her hair.

  “At the hunt ball when I was sixteen.”

  “And if you’d had your way and I’d run tame behind you, what would you have done with me?”

  “Done with you?” She blinked as the impossibility of the scenario hit her. Grown men with no fortune of their own didn’t pay court to underage heiresses.

  Gareth chuckled. “You were best avoided entirely.” He reached up, plucked a berry from the mistletoe, and held it out to her.

  “I suppose I was,” she said as though still thinking it over. She took the berry from him and stared at it, turning it between her fingers. “Show me what you would have done if I hadn’t been. If I’d been one of your string of married conquests, or that yellow-haired opera dancer.”

  Gareth’s cock twitched rudely, immediately in favor of her suggestion. “We have guests.”

  “They’ll keep,” Beau replied with a hint of a wicked smile curling up one side of her mouth. “The set has barely begun and it will take half an hour or more. Are you really telling me you couldn’t have concluded an assignation in half that time?”

  Gareth smiled back at his mad wife. “Meet me in the long gallery.”

  “The gallery? Why not your room?”

  “When debauching a lady at a ball, you don’t generally have access to a bedchamber. You have to make do with something public, but unlikely to be in use.”

  “Someone could see us.”

  “The risk is part of why you do it.” Gareth bowed, plucked the berry from her fingers, took the chaste kiss to which it entitled him, and walked off. He circled the room, smiling to himself when Beau slipped out. He stopped to talk to Mr. Howley, the largest landowner in the neighborhood, for a moment. Howley was smiling indulgently as his son danced with one of the younger Misses Ackeroyds.

  “Miss Julia?” Gareth nodded toward the couple.

  “Miss Hester,” Howley said with a grin. “Though it was a good guess. The Ackeroyd girls are all very similar, and Julia and Hester are twins, just to add to the confusion.”

  “Half the people I know can’t tell my brother Souttar and me apart, and he’s several years older and several inches shorter. I feel for them. As boys we were always getting blamed for something the other did.”

  Howley chuckled. “Young Thomas has no such luck. No one to blame but him when his mother’s Chinese vase was broken or a plate of biscuits went missing.”

  “That’s why every boy needs a dog,” Gareth replied before bowing slightly and slipping out of the room in pursuit of his wife.

  He found her pacing the unlit, long gallery. She started like a frightened doe when he shut the door behind him. “Never sneaked off to a dark corner for a kiss?” he said, burning to know the answer, jealous already of whoever it might have been.

  He pushed her up against the wall, covering her mouth with his. She was pliant, nearly boneless in his arms.

  “Never,” Beau replied, breaking off the kiss. Her eyes were wide, wild, the whites reflecting the moonlight spilling through the tall windows.

  “And here I thought you quite the hoyden.” Gareth opened the fall of his breeches, hauled her skirts up, and lifted her, so she was splayed open, feet off the floor, legs around his hips.

  “On the hunting field, yes.” She gasped and dropped her head back against the wall as he probed for entrance. “But aside from my lamentable talent at being abducted—oh, God—I conducted myself with a great deal of decorum.”

  He found the proper angle and thrust in. Her legs tightened around him. One shoe fell to the floor with a clatter. “Well thank heaven that’s at an end,” he said. Gareth gripped her buttocks and ground into her, pushing them both toward climax as quickly as he could. She stiffened in his arms, gasps turning to mewls, and her body pulsed around his cock, triggering his own release.

  He leaned hard against her, pinning her to the wall with his body, savoring the tiny contractions of her sheath. She let her breath out in a long, satisfied sigh.

  “Is that really what people do in dark corners?” she said.

  Gareth laughed softly and kissed the pulse point just below her ear. “Some variation thereof, yes.”

  “Is that what you did with Lady Cook?”

  The question caught him off guard, punching the air out of his lungs. She sounded hurt by the very idea of it. He let her slide to the floor.

  He took a rattling breath. “With Lady Cook, and others.” Many, many others. He’d lost count. It wasn’t important. They weren’t important.

  Beau’s chin wobbled. “I think she loved you.”

  Gareth would have laughed at the preposterousness of that statement if he couldn’t see that Beau utterly believed it to be true, or at least feared that it was.

  “Lady Cook loved the idea of rubbing me in her husband’s face. Nothing more.”

  “And you liked it too,” Beau said with a hint of resentment.

  Gareth tipped her head up with his knuckle under her chin. “Yes, brat. I liked it too. But Lady Cook isn’t in love with me, and I certainly wasn’t in love with her.”

  “No?” Beau stared up at him, a tiny frown line between her brows. “You’re sure about that?”

  “I’m sure, Beau,” Gareth said before kissing her again, hard, fast, and hungry.

  “Where did the two of you disappear to last night?” Devere said as he piled a rasher of bacon on top of the steak and kidney pie and eggs that he’d already loaded his plate down with.

  Gareth gave him a repressive stare, but Devere merely smiled, showing his teeth in a wolfish grin, and sat down. No one else was up and about yet, but it still didn’t make for polite conversation for the breakfast room.

  “No one else noticed,” Devere said before taking a large bite. He chewed happily, a smile still lurking in his eyes. He swallowed and reached for the cup of coffee that Gareth had poured for him. “But I’ve had years of experience watching you cut your fillies from the herd.”

  “Have you?” Beau said from the doorway, voice heavy with interest and amusement.

  Devere choked and snatched up his napkin. He wiped coffee from his chin and went off in a fit of coughing.

  “Imbecile.” Gareth shook his head and refilled Devere’s cup.

  Beau smiled at him before filling a plate for herself and sitting down beside Devere. “So, what’s my husband’s usual method?”

  “Beau,” Gareth said, hinting her away from the topic. Beau blinked innocently at him as she heaped marmalade atop a wedge of toast. He’d as good as told her he loved her last night, and the same pleased half-smile was still lurking at the corner of her mouth.

  Devere grinned, and Gareth prayed for patience. “Well, he’s always liked the assignation. Do you remember the time I walked in on you and Lady Ligonier in the bathhouse at Dyrham?”

  Gareth glared at him. He most certainly did. Very awkward it had been, too. And far too recent for comfort, seeing as it had been at a party only a few months ago.

  Devere shrugged, eyes full of devilment. “Or the time the innkeeper caught you and his daughter in the taproom at The White Horse? I thought you were a dead man for sure.” He leaned closer to Beau. “Man was screaming his head off and waving a cleaver around like a sword. Sandison’s lucky he’s not a capon.”

  “I was sixteen!”

  “And already a bad piece of work,” Devere said, nodding as though he were pronouncing a home truth.

  Beau burst into laughter. “He’s learned a little something since then,” she said.

  “I would hope so,” Devere said.

 
Gareth ground his teeth. “Come on, you,” he said to Devere, rising from the table. “Come and meet Frederick.”

  “Frederick?” Devere looked baffled.

  “New pet. I can’t even begin to explain. You just have to see him for yourself.”

  Devere swallowed the last of his eggs and followed him out. Beau’s laughter chased them down the corridor and into the hall.

  “You don’t have to encourage her, you know,” Gareth said as he led his last remaining friend across the lawn to the home farm.

  “Not sure I can help myself,” Devere said. “She always was a delightful little beast of a girl. Who knew marriage to one of us could improve upon that trait.”

  Gareth tamped down the urge to laugh. Devere didn’t need any encouragement, and it shouldn’t have been funny.

  They reached the sty, and Frederick came bolting out, jumping up against the fence in a frenzy of excitement. Gareth obligingly scratched behind his ear.

  “What the devil is that thing?” Devere said, staring at the little piglet with horrified fascination.

  “The brat’s idea of a joke, I think,” Gareth replied. “I’m a gentleman farmer now, and Lord North here is my prize pig.”

  “Kind of runty for a prize pig, isn’t he?”

  “He’ll grow.”

  “Kind of…” Devere waved his hands about as though shaping a pig in the air. “Spotty too.”

  “I’m assured that he’s supposed to look like an obese carriage dog. It proves he’s the most English of pigs or something.”

  A low wuffle from beside the sty drew their attention. “Well, there’s your answer,” Devere said, gesturing to the giant black-and-white dog. “Its mother is a Newfoundland.”

  Frederick abandoned them to run to the fence nearest the dog. The dog licked the pig’s nose through the slats. Gareth shook his head. “Beau’s been trying to lure that dog to her for weeks.”

  “Taking after her sister-in-law, is she?”

  “What?” Gareth said. “Oh, yes. Giant strays. You have to admit, Pen is hard to resist. And this beast here, should he ever allow himself to be captured and tamed, would make an impressive conquest.” Gareth snapped his fingers, and the dog cocked its head and backed away, never taking its eyes off them. “But not today, and alas, not for me. I suppose that’s for the best. Beau would never forgive me if I took her dog.”

  “Laid claim to it, has she?” Devere leaned on the fence, calling the piglet back over with dangling fingers.

  “Along with everything else,” Gareth said with a chuckle. “Beau does tend to suck everything into orbit around her.”

  Devere turned his head and slanted his gaze so their eyes met. “Any regrets?”

  “About Beau? Good Lord, no.”

  “About Vaughn?”

  Gareth nodded. “I keep hoping he’ll come around. He can’t stay mad forever, can he?”

  “We are talking about Leonidas Vaughn,” Devere said with a sad shake of his head. “He’s got a talent for holding a grudge.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Beau gripped her husband’s arm as Devere’s coach rolled away. He’d stayed with them an extra three days and was now off to Dover to meet their friend the Chevalier de Moulines and carry the Frenchman back to London. She rested her head on Gareth’s shoulder for a moment.

  “It seems odd that Devere of all people would be the only one to stand by me,” Gareth said. “I’d have expected it to be Thane.”

  “Nonsense,” Beau said, giving him a little shake. “Come spring, this will all have blown over, and we’ll have a full house for the beagling, or the races, or both.”

  Gareth smiled down at her, his expression clearly saying that he didn’t believe a word of what she was saying. Beau shook him a bit harder, knocking him off balance. She didn’t like his sad, reflective mood.

  “Come and help me spy on my dog,” she said. “I’ve been leaving food out for him near Frederick’s pen all week.” She looped her gown up through her pockets, exposing the intricately quilted petticoat beneath it.

  “Haven’t named him yet?” Gareth took her hand and crossed the lawn with her.

  “You have to know a dog before you can name it. For example, if you called my sister-in-law’s mastiff Petunia, it just wouldn’t work. And de Moulines’s greyhound simply isn’t an Angus or a Jemmy.”

  “And you wouldn’t want to get used to calling your beast Gulliver when he’s more of a Crusoe.”

  “Precisely,” Beau said with a laugh, amused that he so clearly understood.

  Upon approaching the sty, they found Frederick lazing in the midday sun on one side of the fence, and the dog doing the same on the other. At the sound of their footsteps, they both raised their heads. The piglet scrambled up and cavorted madly about the pen. The dog heaved itself up and stood watching them, warily.

  Gareth scratched his pig while Beau attempted to lure the dog to her with a bone that she’d brought down wrapped in a handkerchief. The dog took a step toward her, and Beau waggled the bone.

  “Come here, boy,” she said softly. She tsked the way she would to a horse, keeping the dog’s attention. The dog inched close enough to sniff the bone, and Beau held perfectly still. After a moment’s hesitation, it carefully took the bone and went to lie on the far side of the sty with it, keeping an eye on them while it ate.

  “Success?” Gareth said, giving Frederick a final, hearty slap on the side.

  “It’s closer than he’s ever come before,” Beau replied. “I just wish he was more the trusting type, poor thing. There’s something about a stray that breaks my heart. A stray dog has had a covenant broken.”

  “Every stray?” Gareth said, looking horrified.

  “Every last one.” Beau looped her arm through his as they wandered back up to the house. “I had a scraggly terrier with a broken tail and a missing ear as a little girl. His name was Grendel. I found him running wild in Hyde Park. I was quite upset when the portrait painter my father hired prettied him up.”

  Gareth stopped for a moment, staring down at her with a slightly stunned expression. “You mean the little dog in the family portrait in the duchess’s sitting room?”

  Beau nodded.

  “That is the singularly ugliest dog I’ve ever seen. Worse than my grandmother’s pop-eyed pug or the Duchess of Richmond’s lantern-jawed spaniel.”

  Beau grinned. “You should have seen him in all his raggedy glory. Ugly doesn’t even begin to sum it up. But my point is that even Grendel, ugly as he was, didn’t deserve to be abandoned. He’d obviously been someone’s dog. He was trained to sit, to lie down, and he was a magnificent ratter.”

  “Are you warning me that you mean to turn Morton Hall into a home for abandoned dogs?”

  “No.” Beau shook her head. “But I think in order to make Morton Hall into a home, we should have a dog, and the village’s shipwrecked giant would seem to be a perfect choice.”

  “Definitely Gulliver then,” Gareth said, starting back toward the house. “Unless we want to change Frederick’s name to Friday.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Lord Souttar has arrived, sir,” Mr. Peebles said with a sniff as he held open the massive, iron-strapped front door. “I’ve put him in the drawing room.”

  “My brother’s here?” Gareth handed over his greatcoat and hat. His butler was looking distinctly offended, which was not at all his normal mien. Souttar had a way of doing that to people. Toplofty. That’s what all Gareth’s friends always said about him, at least when they were being kind.

  “Yes, sir. Been waiting an hour or more. I told him we didn’t know when you’d return, but his lordship made it clear the matter was pressing.”

  “Is Lady Boudicea with him?”

  “No, her ladyship went for a walk, sir. Down to the village to visit the Misses Ackeroyd, I believe.”

  Gareth nodded and hurried through the Great Hall, boots ringing on the floor with every step. Good Lord, Souttar was going to be in a rage. He hated to be kept waiti
ng. But what the hell was he doing here?

  He burst into the drawing room to find his brother looking very much the worse for wear. “Mother?” Gareth said, expressing the only real worry he had about his brother’s unexpected arrival.

  Souttar made a dismissive face and shook his head. “Mother was fine when I left Ashburn.” He held up a hand, forestalling Gareth’s next inquiry. “The earl too, in case that was your next question.”

  Gareth looked his brother over more carefully, taking in his disordered hair, crumpled coat, and dirty boots. The fact that he hadn’t even asked for a room or bothered to tidy himself spoke volumes. And there was a haunted look about his eyes. Something was very, very wrong.

  “So, what brings you to Kent?” It couldn’t be anything good. Souttar would never have traveled all this way without a damn good reason.

  “Same business I needed you to take care of weeks ago when I wrote and asked you to come home,” Souttar said in an aggrieved tone. “Been a deal of work taking care of it myself, I can assure you.”

  “Oh?” Gareth raised his brows, staring his brother down. Anyone else would have flinched or fidgeted or at least had the decency to look contrite. Souttar stared right back, clearly secure in his belief that it was Gareth’s duty to be at his beck and call.

  “You might at least have asked why I’d sent for you when last we met.”

  “When last we met,” Gareth said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, “I was getting married. I had other things on my mind.”

  His brother waved a dismissive hand and then flinched as a loud wail split the air. Gareth made a questioning gesture toward the writhing, crying bundle on the settee.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s a baby,” Souttar replied with perfect aplomb.

  Gareth peered past his brother. A dark-haired child of about two was struggling to escape the confines of the greatcoat it was wrapped in. “I can see that. What the hell is it doing on my settee?”